Midwest Christmas

I guess I’ve always felt the tension between the spotlight and intimacy. My first memory is of Christmas Day when I was two. We were in the Midwest, Illinois or Missouri, visiting my mom’s family, and the fours of us had flown there. It was my first flight, and while I was a little young, my sister spent the flight handing out peanuts to all of the passengers. She’s always been a ham, and she’s good at it too.

I don’t remember anything else about the trip except Christmas morning. I woke up in a dark room with light streaming through a window. It wasn’t the typical amber yellow light I’m used to on the west coast. It was pale, muted, and as I rubbed sleep from my eyes I could see why. I looked out of the lace/see-through curtain and it was snowing! It was the only white Christmas I have ever had, and rather than it being a magical moment, it became an unnerving one. As I looked out the window, I realized that I was alone in this strange house, having slept on a strange floor, waking up to strange sunlight. Mom and Dad must have been able to keep 3 year old Amanda quite enough as they hurried her out of the room to let me keep sleeping. I groggily opened the door to the room revealing a hallway and some stairs. I sat down on the top step and listened, though I didn’t have to strain at all. There was tons of noise coming up the staircase from the family room, and I just there and listened. The staircase was built so that it was open on one side at the bottom, but you could see less and less of it as you ascended and the second story cut off your view, so I was still in hiding.

I bumped my but down one stair and leaned over, still couldn’t see anything. So bumped my butt down again and leaned over, just a little sliver was visible now, and I couldn’t make out who was who, just that there were many bodies moving around, laughing and joking, happy and warm. It made me feel good so I bumped another step so I could see everything. There were probably 30 people in that room (that’s what my little brain thought, but it might have been less) who were all talking, eating, drinking coffee, and huddled around the tree. 

I’m really glad this is my first memory, because that moment felt more like home than most memories I have after that. There was warmth and joy and love and delight in each other’s company. Looking back I think our living room that morning was the inspiration for cheesy Hallmark Channel movies. Really! Sweaters were worn, stockings were hung, cinnamon rolls were consumed, coffee was clutched, nieces and nephews were snuggled and cousins were wrestling. It was perfect. And as much as I wanted to be a part of it, I also liked being apart from it. It felt good to just receive the warmth of the moment without being engaged. And I know that sounds a little too deep for a two year old to process, but I felt it then and have realized what it was later in life. I think it also depicted what my life would feel like for most of my younger years: like I was always on the outside of happiness, desperately wanting to be in it but unable to. It was the both and of being on the inside and observing from the outside, and I still hold this tension today, when I choose to work in coffee shops, or like my office to be in the middle of things yet keeping my door closed most of the time.

Well, I could just watch forever without being spotted, and sure enough I was. I have no idea who pointed me out first, but soon there was a chorus or “Good morning, Christopher!” And “ Merry Christmas, Christopher!” Ringing out. They all called to me to join them and motioned for me to come downstairs, and ultimately I think I booty-bumped my way down the rest of the stairs with one of my parents meeting me at the bottom and scooping me up in their arms.

I’m glad this is my first ever memory.